


Shift

by beaubete



Series: Quiver/Shift [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Car Sex, Exhibitionism, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 11:45:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay, so maybe Bond will get an Aston Martin after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pati79](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pati79/gifts).



> A gift for Pati79, because car sex is always appropriate as a gift!
> 
> Unbeta'ed.
> 
> (I am so dreadful with names, oh god)

If he’d known it would be this funny to actually do it, Q would have given Bond the Aston Martin ages ago.

“Shh-shh,” Bond tuts quietly as he strokes the car’s elegant curves.  “Don’t pay him any mind.  He’s just jealous.  Christ, you’re lovely,” he coos, caressing the vent in the bonnet covetously.

“Missed her, did you?” Q asks, biting his lip against the snickers that are building up.

Bond’s arched brow and disdainful look nearly crack him.  When Bond turns back to the car and starts murmuring love-nothings, he lets himself grin.  “—no one else but you, sweeting—”  He catches it faintly, and okay, that one stings a little.  Had he not just brought the man a car after months of endless pestering?  And hadn’t he just last week let him bend him over his desk after hours?  Q huffs to himself quietly.

“Do you need me to leave you two alone?” he asks instead, crossing his arms to look as officious as possible.  “Hang a do-not-disturb sign?  Perhaps contact a hotel and arrange for the honeymoon suite?”

“Jealousy isn’t attractive, Quartermaster,” Bond tells him, but his attention isn’t even on Q—he’s tugging on leather driving gloves that Q swears he wasn’t holding before.  The Aston Martin’s door opens gracefully, nearly noiselessly, and Bond makes a show of petting everything he can reach with those gloves that look sinfully soft.  He adjusts his tie, stark black leather framed against his crisp white shirt, and Q chokes back a soft moan.  “I love her,” Bond says seriously, and Q could take it as a “thank you”, but it’s not.  It’s a declaration of truth, the way Bond so rarely offers it.

“You had better.  I’ve blown a significant chunk of—” my budget, he thinks, but while it’s vague enough to let Bond think he means the department, his pride still raises its hackles at confessing how many cup noodles he’s going to have to subsist on in exchange for the memory of Bond’s face when he’d lifted the cover away “—change,” he settles for instead.  “She’s an expensive beast.”

“And worth every bit of it,” Bond assures him, a gleeful little smile tugging its way across his face.  Yes.  Q rather reckons she is.

“I haven’t yet made the modifications,” Q says as he walks around the car to open the door opposite.  “I was hoping you might be able to give me a request or two?  She’ll have to live here at the labs until they’re finished, of course, and it’ll take some time to get up the cash to do them.”

“I can’t take her home?” Bond asks, frowning. 

“Not straightaway, no,” Q agrees.  “My apologies.”

Bond’s frown deepens as he slides into the car.  “I’d like guns, of course,” he says, gesturing with one hand toward the places where he’d like them mounted.  He talks about rocket launchers, anti-aircraft weaponry, remote operation systems, and Q struggles with the erection that’s forming because even as he talks, even as he lists the incredibly dangerous and slightly implausible—a roll-proof cage, he can do, but making it machine gun-proof?  Past experiences aside, there’s only so much Q can do before it’s too heavy to move—things he’d like the car to be able to do, Bond touches her with a lover’s hand.  He’s tracing the edge of the seamed leather on the steering wheel with his thumbnail, blunted by the driving gloves.  His spine arches; the leather squeaks under his trousers as Bond all but writhes in his seat.  “You’re not paying attention,” Bond says finally, and Q flushes.

“You really like this car,” he says, and he could smack himself for the inanity.

“I do,” Bond says.  His eyes spark, playful creases forming around them as he holds back his grin.  “I love a shapely lady.”

“Do you?”

“Oh, yes.”  Bond’s hair is short, fine where it brushes against the headrest behind him.  His posture is already relaxed, but as Q watches he drops into a looser frame, shoulders and hips opening up as he melts bonelessly into the plush interior.  His hands trace the wide spread of his knees before dragging the knuckles of one hand against the gearshift suggestively.  “Shall I show you how much?”

Q’s mouth goes dry.  He nods wordlessly, ignoring Bond’s throaty laugh for the sight of him—they’re inside the car; he shuts his door firmly and hopes it will disguise enough on the surveillance footage, but he knows he’s going to have to loop some footage and doctor a timestamp or two—carefully picking open his flies.  He’s hard beneath the placket of pressed wool.  Q’s mouth waters.

“Her curves—so elegant,” Bond praises softly as he takes himself out.  It’s positively obscene, that single bit of bare flesh surrounded by so much black leather and fine English tailoring.  “She’s a fine lady, you know.  The sort of understated beauty you can take out in public; she gives good face.  Help, please,” Bond interrupts himself to offer a gloved hand to Q.  It smells like sex and danger; Q gives two fingers a lingering suck before drooling enough slick into Bond’s palm to ease the way.  Bond resumes his stroking casually.  “But you know that every man there is jealous.  He sees her there with you and knows.  He knows the way she responds when you touch her, the way it takes barely a brush of your fingertips to have her responding beautifully, to have her purring under your hands.”

Bond’s cock is making slick sounds now, wet with Q’s saliva and his own pleasure as he squirms against the seat.  Q shifts to follow, pressing his cheek against the buttery skin of the seat, eyes open and wet with want.  There’s not much room to go, but Bond eases his seat back and spreads his knees.  Q swallows past a lump.  “I’m beginning to see the appeal,” he confesses, curling a hand over the edge of the seat to keep from reaching out to touch Bond.

“Are you?” Bond asks, laughing breathlessly. 

“Mm,” Q hums in agreement.  “Lovely bit of work.”

“So dismissive!”  Bond chuckles outright at that, breaking off into a stuttered groan.  “Touch her.”

“Touch—?”

Bond’s free hand, the one not wrapped around his cock, grabs Q’s and guides it to the thrumming gearshift.  The car’s not on, but every movement of Bond’s pumping arm shakes the narrow chassis, translating beautifully until the shift is wriggling and squirming in his palm as if from a lover’s touch.  He strokes, fingers slipping under the knob to pet the shaft, and Bond’s grin is lecherous.  “Now you’re getting it.”

“Not half as well as I’d like,” Q mutters and Bond laughs again.

“You’ll have to let us take you out some time, darling,” Bond coaxes, eyes drifting shut around the fantasy he’s painting.  “Countryside.  Just the three of us; you and I can go punting, and when you’re good and worked up from the sunshine and the exercise, I can lay you out in her backseat.  Imagine all that sun-warmed leather along your spine.  You’d be pink, no doubt—sun, exertion, arousal—and pale in all the prettiest places; you’d glow against her.  Hot and close and cozy, tucked away—”

And the fantasy does have some merit.  He can picture it as Bond describes it, a lazy summer day fucking in the back of a gorgeous car, but fantasy’s not a patch on the image of Bond here and now, cock in his fist and hips thrusting as he starts to come, cock spitting over his fist onto fine leather seats.  Q can’t help the impulse when he leans over to drag his tongue along the pebbled skin, tasting tannins and preservatives and salt.  He glances at Bond when he’s done, and Bond grins.

“Oh, yes,” Bond hums with satisfaction.  “The two of you are going to get along just fine.”


End file.
